


Make Yourself

by eternalgoldfish, Oop



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: AU time!, Collaboration, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Some Fluff, Some angst, Steve is a cop, you know how it goes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-07 02:26:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17951903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalgoldfish/pseuds/eternalgoldfish, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oop/pseuds/Oop
Summary: Steve left and he didn't say goodbye.He did it for himself. And he did it for Billy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was thinking that the format for this would be sort of "The Butterfly Effect"-esque, where each chapter is a different way things could go when Steve comes back. This is also where the collab part comes in: each version is written by a different author!
> 
> If you're interested in writing a chapter of it, let me know!
> 
> my tumblr url is areyouactuallystupid

Steve left.

He applied to the police academy in Chicago, didn’t tell anyone except Hopper, who helped with the application and promised to stay tight-lipped about it, and then left as soon as he got the acceptance letter. Steve didn’t do goodbyes. Not to Tommy. Not to Nancy. Not to Dustin. Not to his parents.

He didn’t even say goodbye to Billy. _Especially_ not Billy.

He got the letter, he packed his bags, and he left the next day.  
  
That wasn’t to say that he didn’t _think_ about Billy. Every night, guilt a solferino filter, he replayed every memory like a great, terrible movie: the fight, the accidental meetings at the quarry, the drugs, the drinks, the parties, the movies, the talking, the apologies, the smiles, the laughter, the bruises, the caresses, the shushes, the kisses, the sex. _God_ , the _sex_ .  
  
The thing was, Steve couldn’t have left Billy any other way. If Steve had told him he was leaving, if he had witnessed the disappointment-turned-maliciousness on Billy’s face, Steve would have trapped himself in Hawkins. For Billy, he’d walk backward and naked into the Upside Down. But, if Steve stayed, years down the road, years of stewing on a fault that wasn’t really Billy’s but still centered around him, Steve would fuck it up. He knew it. Like that time he left an aluminum pot on a hot burner too long, the result wouldn’t be an explosion but a steady drip, an uneven splatter-coating of ruin over everything in his vicinity.  
  
He couldn’t do that to himself, and he definitely couldn’t do it to Billy.

To Nancy? Maybe. To the kids? Maybe.

Not to Billy.

And Billy had big plans, too. California. New York. Medical school. Law school. Music. Europe. South America. French. Spanish. Billy made plans and then changed them in the same month, same day, same breath. He wanted to do _so_ _much_ , _everything_ , had the smarts to do _anything_.

Steve would have held him back. If he didn’t leave Hawkins the way he had, if he’d stayed and simmered mostly-tepid, he would never have left and Billy would have stayed. For Steve, he would have. And if there was one thing Billy Hargrove needed (though, admittedly, he needed a _lot_ of things), it sure as hell wasn’t another shackle.  
  
In hindsight, Steve wished he’d left Billy a note. Or maybe an address. A phone number. Something. But he didn’t want Billy to wait. He knew Billy and he knew that the only way to make sure he got out, too, was to crush what they had like a cigarette under his sneaker, grind it down until it couldn’t unintentionally spark up again. Billy Hargrove needed to look at Hawkins with all the contempt and disgust he had when he first rolled into it because nothing could drive Billy Hargrove away from something except Billy Hargrove; if he didn’t _want_ to go, he _wouldn’t_ .  
  
So Steve made him want to go.

And it killed him a little bit, every day. Every day, the movie in his head became a little less dream, a little more nightmare. Every day, he ached from a Billy-sized hole right in his center. Every day he dreamed of golden skin and blond curls and flinched with the need to _feel,_ to _hold_ .  
  
Just as fast as he left, Steve returned. He had his things already packed when he got his letters of certification, threw them in his glovebox and drove back so recklessly that he thought Billy would be proud of him.  
  
Billy _would_ be proud of him.  
  
But Billy used to _love_ him, and pride? Well, pride paled in comparison to that.  
  
Still, it could be a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, if you're interested in writing a chapter, just let me know! We've got a fun lineup getting started and there are no participation limits.


	2. used to be one of the rotten ones (and i liked you for that)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy wasn't there, but that wasn't good enough.
> 
> Or, _park that car, drop that phone, sleep on the floor, dream about me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not saying you _have_ to listen to "Anthems for a Seventeen-Year-Old Girl" by Broken Social Scene, but I would _strongly_ recommend it, you know?

**i. park that car**

Billy wasn’t there.

The first thing Steve did when he hit Hawkins was throw his suitcase inside the doors of his parent’s house, didn’t even check if they were home. Then he climbed back in his Beemer, same one he had since high school, checked his hair in the overhead mirror like his windows weren’t going to be rolled down as he drove too fast through the center of town, right to Old Cherry Road. He parked badly against the curb. Everything ached, he couldn’t get air. He knew he had made this prophecy, did this to himself.

Billy’s Camaro wasn’t in the driveway. There was a broken pane in the glassed-in front porch, jagged teeth still glistening in the sun, probably shards dug into the earth below the hole.

Steve kept his head high as he knocked on the door, knew he’d made a mistake the second Max opened it and scowled, said, “Fuck you, Steve Harrington,” and tried to close the door on his foot.

“Max, Max!” Steve said, pushing on the wood. “C’mon, I didn’t—is Billy home?”

Max tipped her head back, mean. It was too much like Billy, the curve of her mouth, the high shoulders. “Why the fuck would you care?”

“I wanted to see him.” Steve bit his lip. “Say sorry.”

“Yeah, well.” Max’s smile was too tight. “Should have thought of that sooner. He’s not here anymore. But you could apologize to me. To Dustin? Maybe your own goddamn parents who thought you had been kidnapped until the first time you called? Everyone thought Billy had done something to you. Everyone.”

Steve balled his fists. He hadn’t been thinking about that. All he’d really thought through was the tension in his gut when Billy kissed him and the longing he knew they had for a better life. He’d thought about Billy getting coffee in a New York café and thought that would be better, in the long run.

“I’m sorry, okay?” He said, maybe too soft. “I’m sorry. I knew no one would let me leave. This place is kind of shit, you know? Like a black hole for anyone who shows up.”

“You managed to leave.”

“I had to do it the way I did. I can’t explain it better, it’s. Please Max, I gotta talk to him.”

“ _Well_ , he’s not here. Probably won’t be ever again. Last time he came was bad, and he doesn’t call that often. At least he actually told us where the fuck he was going.”

Steve bit his lip, said, “Can I have it, the phone number?”

Max rolled her eyes and let the door swing open, walked down the hall muttering something about pathetic men, and Steve knew his shoulders were hiking up to his ears, the kind of tense-muscled twist he couldn’t roll out of his joints. He closed the door behind him and locked it like his mama taught him before following Max to her room. The door to Billy’s was open, but there wasn’t a stitch of him inside, not the bed Steve would sleep on when he snuck through the window, not Billy’s worn Doc Martens. Just a large desk piled high with drooping papers and a flurry of sticky notes.

When he turned and stepped inside Max’s room, she was opening a shoe box on her bed and dumping out postcards. Steve’s mouth went dry as he rifled through them. They were from Paris, Barcelona, Tokyo, then Connecticut, Connecticut, Connecticut. They spoke of lush gardens and vast cathedrals, places Steve had never been. Promised I-miss-yous and wish-you-were-heres as Steve gripped two in his hands. One from Paris, _Has Steve come home?_ One from Connecticut, _I miss you._

“Can I have these?”

“I guess? Fucking weirdo. He’s not going to want to hear from you,”

It hurt. “I want to call anyway.”

 

**ii. drop that phone**

The phone picked up on the first ring, and Steve didn’t know what to do but gasp soft when Billy said, sort of gruff, “Hello?”

“Sorry,” Steve said, but only partly for the things he needed to. “Did I wake you up?”

There was a long pause, some shuffling. “You have some fucking nerve.”

“Sorry,” Steve said, this time choked, this time for the things he needed to. “I’m so sorry, Billy, I had to, or we wouldn’t, couldn’t move on, and—”

The line went dead, the buzzing in his ear breaking the first sob. Max took the phone and put it back in the cradle, crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t know what the fuck you wanted.”

“I don’t know,” Steve said. “I don’t know. A hi, how are you?”

“You must be thinking of a different Billy Hargrove.”

And Max looked so much like her step-brother with her arms crossed like that, stance wide as she looked at him, hard. “He lost it when you left. No one could fucking figure out _why_ , but. I will kill you if you hurt him again.” Her lips were red, hair piled on her head the way it would never be a year ago. She still wore that ratty red sweater, but her jeans were tighter, her shirt under the sweater shorter. She was a year older, he realized. Everyone had gotten too old.

“I won’t,” he promised.

“Go talk to Dustin.”

“I do talk to him,” Steve said, ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not—I do _care_ , I called eventually.”

“But not Billy.”

Steve swallowed. “No. Not Billy.”

 

**iii. sleep on the floor**

Steve said hi to his mama fast enough to kiss her cheek and grab his bags, let her make him a ham and swiss sandwich on toasted rye and pretended his foot wasn’t tapping against the floor. He went to his father’s office to bring him his sandwich, kissed daddy dearest on the cheek like his mama had taught him. His dad appraised him, told him he was proud like you might mention the weather, gave him a one-armed hug.

Billy’s address was on the back of every postcard. Max had drawn out the best route on Steve’s map. She’d been to see her brother, had planned to see him so many ways, but knew Steve wouldn’t take her. He was grateful, drove too fast from state to state, drove the twelve-hour drive in eleven, showed up at the door to a graying townhouse as midnight was settling in.

The stars were all washed out by yellowing streetlights as Steve parked next to the Camaro, heart strangling his tongue and lungs feeling like tough leather. The number of times he’d thought about sitting in Billy’s passenger seat all caught up at once.

He got out and locked the door, felt foolish as he pulled his suitcase from the trunk. Like he could move in with one breath. Like the rattling and bumping of the wheels smacking against the concrete front steps didn’t feel raw, jagged, glistening between his ribs.

He knocked and got nothing, rang the doorbell and bit his lip. Lights turned on in the hallway. Steve could make out Billy’s shape behind the frosted glass as the doorknob rattled.

This was a bad idea.

Billy blinked at Steve like maybe he was having a bad dream, said a little too late, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

And Steve burbled like a fountain, dropped all his words in slow-rolling tears. “I’m sorry, baby, so fucking sorry, had to go so, so we could leave that town, missed you every fucking day, love you so—”

“You don’t get to call me that,” Billy said, teeth grit. Looked from Steve, to his suitcase, to Steve. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Billy, I—”

It was just one hit. Billy’s fist snapped forward like a broken bungee cord, split Steve’s lip and sent him stumbling, breath catching as he tipped backwards off the stair. Couldn’t stop his fall. Didn’t deserve to.

Billy said, “Jesus fucking Christ,” and the next second there was a hand clamping around Steve’s wrist as Billy used to momentum to grab Steve and throw him into the house. Steve smashed into a side table next to the stairs, knocked over a key bowl, nearly smashed the mirror. Billy threw the suitcase after him, slammed the front door like he wanted to rattle the house down.

“You leave in the morning,” Billy said. “Don’t fucking talk to me. Don’t _touch_ anything. Just stay on the couch.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Fuck.”

 

A clock ticked in the kitchen, left Steve counting the seconds as he lay on Billy’s over-worn living room couch with a jacket around his middle, pretending he could see prophecies in the popcorn ceiling. Billy had loved him, in another life. Billy could have been tan and gorgeous, one year older, mullet grown out around his ears and shoulders broader. He could have been defined, technicolour, the Billy standing on Steve’s front porch with Chinese take-out and long eyelashes as he said, “Hey, sweetheart, your parents home?” But newer. Wiser. More home.

Steve rubbed his eyes and pressed until he made new stars in the dark.

His plan had worked. Billy travelled, went to school, figured out what he wanted. Steve didn’t know what his degree was, medicine, engineering, law, but he knew Billy had figured it out in Paris, Barcelona, Tokyo. He’d found a piece of himself he needed, without Steve.

Of course he wouldn’t want to give it back.

 

**iv. dream about me**

“Why did you leave?” Billy asked, couch sagging below him by Steve’s knees. The sun wasn’t up yet, Billy lit from behind by faint street lights, making him dark and ghostly, face unrecognizable in shadows.

Steve closed his eyes again, said weak, “Because I loved you.”

“That ashamed?” Billy growled, hand landing on Steve’s knee in a way it never had before, biting, hard. Like he could break Steve’s kneecap if he wanted.

Steve didn’t move, jumbled, suddenly choked. “No! No? Nothing, nothing like that. God, I. I wanted you to go to school. Wanted this.”

“You wanted to do that to me? You knew what it was like there. You _knew._ ”

The pane was broken on Billy’s front porch. Max had said, last time Billy visited, it was _bad_. Things coiled in Steve’s stomach and slithered through his intestines, knew the poison burning him up was his own.

“No, no—” Steve said. “We weren’t going to leave if I didn’t. I missed you every fucking night. God, baby—”

“Stop. You lost that right.”

Steve grabbed Billy’s wrist, shook under the weight of his hand. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. God, Billy, I. I am so fucking sorry. I needed. We needed to grow. I got my police certification? Wanted to be able to pay our bills. Wanted you to travel, like you said you always wanted.”

“I wanted to travel _with you,”_ Billy said, harsh, teary.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“You fucking _idiot.”_

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Billy hissed through his teeth, wiped his cheeks, grabbed Steve’s wrist. “Why should I take you back?”

He didn’t sound proud. He didn’t sound in love. He sounded tired, drowned out, mean, and Steve didn’t have anything better to say, just babbled, “I’m sorry. I love you? You—there’s space in your driveway. They have police in New Haven.”

A hand met Steve’s cheek, rough like it shouldn’t be when Billy used nothing but pens. He wrote papers, he wrote postcards, should have thumbs that smelled like ink. “I hate you.”

“I know. I know.”

Billy’s lips had always been plump but chapped, always tasted like mint gum and tobacco. Steve tangled his hand in Billy’s hair and kissed him, eyes hot and cheeks wet, chest burning.

“I’m doing a summer semester. I normally have roommates.”

“So you want me to—” Steve shuddered.

“None of them have cars.”

Steve cracked his eyes open, held Billy’s forehead to his in the dark. “I can pay rent.”

“They won’t like you. I’ve been drunk. Talk too much.”

“That’s okay. They shouldn’t. I—”

“Shut up. Bring your suitcase upstairs.”

 

Billy’s room was at the top of the house, all worn wood panelling painted blue and peaked ceilings. Steve lay under his covers for too long, watched sunlight creep through the large circular window near the top of the wall, blinds covering just enough to keep the morning soft and hazy.

He would need to call his mom, figure out how to bring the rest of his things to New Haven. He would have to find a way to explain that he’d finally come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, comments are lovely, and I hope you enjoy every variation of this story from here out.  
> Big love to Oop, delphineygt, and uncaringerinn for looking this over and cheering me on.  
> Come chat with me over on tumblr @eternalgoldfish


End file.
